


im a walking travesty

by sweetlyinfinite



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Harry Has Cancer, M/M, and he doesnt physically feature in this, no one does until the end tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetlyinfinite/pseuds/sweetlyinfinite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, he will one day. One day Harry will come home, but he’ll come home in a freezing cold jar, only pieces of ash; the colour of the clouds when it rains. He’ll be warmed by the fireplace on the mantelpiece, next to Louis’ grandma and a photograph of them on their first New Year’s Eve party together in their flat, cheeks flushed a brilliant red with alcohol and their lips kissed red framing smiles as big as the sun. One day Harry will come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	im a walking travesty

**Author's Note:**

> sorry if this doesnt make much sense, but i havent posted in while and this is something id done ages ago and just had to tweak a bit (a lot if im being honest, i wasnt the best writer last year) 
> 
> i love you so much for even clicking the link to come to this page so thank you

Cancer. It’s nearly always bad. Well, when isn’t it bad? Louis doesn’t know anyone that is glad to have cancer; do you?

And when Harry was diagnosed with cancer, it was devastating. Harry was 21 and healthy and full of life and love and energy that only very lucky people possess. Harry was very lucky, really, lucky like a falling star and a four leaf clover, green and wet from the morning dew.

(Trampled by the heavy boots of a man on his way to work, green and wet and _broken_.)

When the migraines turned out to be a very unfortunate case of brain cancer, the light fell from a lot of people’s eyes. It didn’t even matter if they didn’t know him personally; a heavy and dark mood fell over the small town like a cloud before a storm, like the swelling before a hurricane, an endless pit of _right_ _now_ instead of _forever_.

Louis had to be the ray of sunshine for everyone for a few weeks following Harry’s diagnosis, the fucking light of people’s lives because they were shallow enough not to find it on their fucking own, to leave it to a boy only a few years older than Harry to make them feel better. He had to make stupid corny jokes that didn’t fail to make anyone smile; he did things like jump around and flail his arms and he was constantly smiling and laughing, because he thought if at least one person was happy, it would eventually begin to rub off on someone else and then he could finally frown.

It worked for a time. The mood lifted and everyone was cheerier, even if they weren’t as happy as they had the potential to be, and Louis was allowed to hide in their flat and cry until there was absolutely nothing left. Until he was drained and limp and barely breathing.

The news came that Harry had three months left to live, three tiny, miniscule fucking _months_ left of his life. The news that Louis’ boyfriend, his fiancé, his fucking soul mate, would be dead in three months came via email from Harry’s doctors.

Like, hey look you have 40% off your next grocery shop, and, well, would you look at that? Your soul mate only has 3 months left to live! Wicked! You should use the grocery voucher on champagne to celebrate! !!!

Louis was so, so angry that it was Harry who had to die. He was so angry he couldn’t breathe. Like, why Harry? There are literally billons of people in the world and yet Harry Styles, who hadn’t yet officially become Harry Tomlinson, was _given the gift of cancer_ , which a religious therapist told Louis, pressing pale pink rosary beads into his palms with the hopes that he’d see the fucking _light_ or some other generic god bullshit. Louis dropped the beads in the vase on his way out and he didn’t see her anymore. Doesn’t; doesn’t see her anymore.

Every time Louis thinks about it his head gets overwhelmed with thoughts that aren’t his and the searing hot rage crashes through him, burning his mind before it begins to drown, begins to drag him down, down, _down_ , until he hits the bottom of the unexplored ocean, black and void of anything familiar but the flooding of his lungs.

 

Louis isn't sorry when he shouts at his mother, at Niall, at Liam, at Zayn to fuck off and not come back. He can't bring himself to be sorry for anything but that he is not the one dying of a brain tumour.

 

Harry has an older sister named Gemma. Louis loves her to bits; she’s like a section of his soul, like Harry is if he thinks about it too much. He’ll always love her as though she’s one of his own sisters, and she nearly truly was.

She tries to be optimistic, at least in Harry's company. Every day, she comes to see Harry so she can tell him about her day. She thinks he’s still her little brother that played with her dolls and had tea parties with her and baked a special cupcake just for her. But he's not the same brother. He can't be anyone’s anything these days.

Gemma knows this outside the hospital room, knows Harry’s dying earlier than he should and knows that if he tried to bake her anything he’d probably croak halfway through, but inside the hospital room she is a beacon of hope, like Louis had to be after the initial diagnosis.

Harry’s mum and step-dad, Anne and Robin, like to think he can still be their baby, fool themselves into only remembering the good things and the times when Harry remembers them, but even Louis knows that he's not coming home.

The thing is, he will one day. One day Harry will come home, but he’ll come home in a freezing cold jar, only pieces of ash; the colour of the clouds when it rains. He’ll be warmed by the fireplace on the mantelpiece, next to Louis’ grandma and a photograph of them on their first New Year’s Eve party together in their flat, cheeks flushed a brilliant red with alcohol and their lips kissed red framing smiles as big as the sun. One day Harry will come _home_.

It’s pointless to remember things, like their first kiss against a tree near Harry’s home, like the first I love you by the very same tree but with roses and lilies and a promise ring, like their first time having sex with Harry pushing sweetly, gently, into Louis and _i love you_ and _you're_ _so_ _gorgeous_ and _im_ _gonna_ _marry_ _you_ _one_ _day_ mumbled into hot, feverish flesh, like their talks of adopting a little girl and naming her something unique but not too weird, like afternoons spent sleepy and soft against each other in front of a TV with tea in their hands, like, well. Like the proposal, with Louis on his bad knee smiling up at Harry like he has the world in his palms and a ring sitting, distracting, in a velvet case and with Harry’s tears staining his skin and the continuous stream of _yes_ _i_ _love_ _you_ _forever_ _please_.

So, as proven above, pointless. Because Harry can't remember these things. Not even when they met, almost bustling past each other at The Script concert but Harry smiling even brighter than the stage lights and Louis getting lost in this boy’s aura, his glowing heart, as silly as it may sound.

Harry can't even remember the colour of Louis’ eyes that very first day, a great ocean blue with the life of the sea pulsing, hiding, amongst all that colour, shy yet bold, Harry can't even remember anything important.

∞

Harry’s in surgery. Louis is freaking out and his heart is racing, beating, pounding, like it’s in a competition to hammer the hardest, fastest; his heart is racing, beating, pounding.

His heart is winning.

He’s the wind, whipping the sea into wild waves, he’s the waves making someone lose their surfboard and get thrown onto the hard sand, he’s someone. No one.

They are huddled together, inseparable; Anne’s warm, shivering hand clutching Louis’ and Robin’s, Gemma on the other side of Louis, her head buried in the crook of his neck and grasping his hand like it’s her lifeline; like if she lets go she’ll surely drown in the stale, bleached, empty, disinfectant scented white walls of the waiting room. If Gemma lets go of Louis she won’t be able to get back up.

Louis feels numb, numb like he’s been injected with tranquiliser, that's the only name he can put to the stale, bleached, empty, disinfectant scented white walls of his mind. He blinks and that’s it, that’s all he’s moving, his chest isn't even getting bigger as he breathes, his hair isn't falling into his eyes, his toes aren’t twitching in his shoes. He wonders if Harry will even come home after all, whether or not Anne will want him on her own fireplace by her parents or if Robin will request a burial instead.

Louis feels numb.

But then those things are being shoved into a very cramped and tight spot at the very back of his mind and a lovely white sheet is being draped over the thoughts and they’re so insignificant.

A throat is cleared and Louis moves, at last, he glances up from the cool white of the tiles shining bleakly against the buzzing fluorescent lighting. The doctor’s standing there in his white coat and blue scrubs, looking like the ocean on a dreary day and holding on tightly to his clipboard, about to utter the sentence that will decide the rest of Louis’ life and announce the state of somebody else’s.

The doctor’s standing there in his white coat and blue scrubs and Louis feels numb. He doesn’t notice that Gemma drops his hand.

“He didn’t make it, I'm sorry,” he says.

And Louis breaks.

**Author's Note:**

> quickly, i wanted to say merry christmas!!!!
> 
> if i post the thing ive been working on ill have to say this again, but just in case i procrastinate until past the new year, ive said it now.


End file.
